more steps. The front stoop was big enough for the three of them to stand comfortably, or at least so Cooke thought, until Mr. Male Pattern Baldness ordered him to raise his hands so he could frisk him.
“You’re kidding me,” Cooke said, irritated by the request. “I run the CIA. The secretary and I talk all the time.”
The bodyguard remained unfazed by the information. “If you run the CIA, where is your security detail?”
Now Cooke was really bothered. Who the hell did this rent-a-suit think he was, asking him questions? Staring the man down, Cooke lied. “I gave them the day off.”
The man considered the response for a moment. It didn’t make a lot of sense. The CIA was a serious place, with serious threats. Why would any sane man give his security detail the day off? “No disrespect, sir, but I don’t know you, you don’t have an appointment, and you don’t have any identification. My job is to protect the secretary, period. If I were to let a complete stranger into this house I wouldn’t be very good at my job, would I?”
Myriad retorts flashed across his mind, most of them involving Cooke putting the man in his place and insulting his intellect, but in the end he decided that making a scene on the secretary’s front stoop was unwise, so he raised his arms and allowed the guy to run his hands up and down his body.
When they were done checking everything but the deepest recesses of his groin, Cooke was escorted into the house. The second bodyguard told him they were to wait in the foyer. The two men stood on the black and white checked marble floor in silence for a few minutes until the secretary came down the long staircase. He was dressed in a pair of charcoal gray, wool dress pants, with a white button-down shirt, and he’d traded in the yellow cardigan from yesterday for a red one.
“Paul . . . two days in a row. Something must be very urgent.”
“Sorry, Franklin, but I’m off to Paris in the morning and I thought it would be a good idea if we discussed a few things.”
Wilson stopped on the far side of the foyer and eyed his visitor. He looked as if he might have been napping. “Paris . . . does this have anything to do with what we discussed the other day?”
“Yes.” Cooke gave the bodyguard a sideways glance and Wilson took the hint.
“Why don’t we go downstairs?”
“I think that would be a good idea.” Cooke crossed the foyer.
The two men proceeded down the long hallway to the kitchen. Wilson opened the door to the basement, flipped a light switch, and then motioned for Cooke to go ahead. The secretary followed and closed the door behind him.
Cooke watched the older man go through the same routine he’d been through the day before. He went behind the bar, opened a panel, and pressed several buttons. A few seconds later the sound of a string quartet drifted down from the ceiling speakers. After that Wilson grabbed two lowballs, tossed in a few ice cubes, and filled them with scotch. Cooke was about to protest. He had work to do, and the middle of a Sunday was no time to start drinking, but Franklin Wilson was not the type of man to be rebuffed. It was better to take the drink and baby it.
Wilson came out from behind the bar with a glass in each hand and gestured toward the two leather club chairs on each side of the fireplace. Apparently there would be no billiards today. “If I’d known you were stopping by, I would have had a fire going.” Wilson handed Cooke his scotch on the rocks and after both men were seated he asked, “So what’s on your mind?”
“As I said, I’m headed to Paris in the morning.”
“Yes, what’s that all about?”
“A couple of things. I want to see my people at our embassy and get a sense of their morale.” Cooke looked at his drink and added, “I also have a meeting with some of my contacts at the DGSE.”
“French Intelligence?” Wilson asked with an arched brow.
Cooke nodded. “As you can imagine, they’re not very happy about the current situation.”
“Have they told you who they think was behind the attack?”
“No,” Cook answered with a shake of his head, “but there are certain things in my business that we’re loath to discuss over the phone.”
“Of course.” Wilson took a gulp from his drink and sighed as it warmed his throat. “Do you have a sense, though, that they might have some leads?”
“Apparently it’s turned into a spook convention in Paris and everyone is a suspect.”
“And Stansfield?”
“He’s flying over with me.”
Wilson stared at his visitor for a moment. “Your idea or his?”
“Mine. I thought it would be a good idea to get him out of his element. I have some surveillance teams set up to follow him. If he does anything unusual or meets with anyone of interest we’ll know.”
“Sounds like a good idea. What else?”
Cooke took a tiny sip and said, “Hurley showed up.”
Wilson edged forward in his seat. “Interesting. Where is he?”
“Paris . . . DGSE has him under surveillance.”
“You’re good,” Wilson said with an admiring tone. “Has he done anything stupid?”
“Not yet, but knowing his history, there’s a good chance he’ll give the French a reason to arrest him before the week is over.”
